


Sleep (Don't Count On It)

by indistinct_echo



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Anxiety, Covid-19 pandemic, Depersonalization, Dissociation, Fear of Death, Intrusive Thoughts, M/M, Panic Attacks, Somniphobia (fear of sleep)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-12 21:22:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28517103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indistinct_echo/pseuds/indistinct_echo
Summary: "His heartbeat quickens as conversations turn into arguments, and he finds himself defending but then surrendering to the harsher methods his mind uses against him."In the middle of the night, Phil struggles through a panic attack.
Relationships: Dan Howell/Phil Lester
Comments: 9
Kudos: 37





	Sleep (Don't Count On It)

**Author's Note:**

> This fic handles real anxieties and includes somewhat vivid descriptions of panic attacks and intrusive thoughts (including thoughts of dying). If you are someone who develops new phobias or intrusive thoughts easily, I'd advise that you skip this fic, or at least defer it until Covid-19 is behind us. Thanks :)

The pillow is cold against Phil’s head. His limbs are heavy and tired. If he doesn’t move, if he doesn’t open his eyes, he might just be able to slip into slumber and join Dan in the land of the dreaming.

But his mind buzzes and judges and refuses to quiet; fleeting thoughts turn lingering, and the more he tries to focus on thinking about _nothing,_ the more effectively something, anything, _everything_ pulls his attention.

It’s like he can’t sleep until he’s recounted all of his most embarrassing moments, like he can’t rest until he’s perfectly scripted numerous difficult discussions in dozens of different ways. Mentally settling scores that don’t matter, whispering admissions that would only hurt if said aloud, giving voice to fears and concerns that perhaps simply distract from the real issues… These aren’t conversations that will ever happen, but Phil hopes that, by thinking them through, he’ll be able to quell the torment made up of all of these things he isn’t saying in the light of day.

His heartbeat quickens as conversations turn into arguments, and he finds himself defending but then surrendering to the harsher methods his mind uses against him.

It’s all organized until it isn’t. One thought jumps to the next, jumps to the next, and suddenly everything’s moving too fast.

Phil squeezes his eyes shut tight and fights the urge to look at the clock to see how long he’s been circling around sleep like an errant drop of water around a drain.

_Breathe. Breathe. Focus on breathing._

_Inhale. Hold. One, two, three, four. Exhale._

The more he tries to wrangle his thoughts, the quicker they evolve into their more insidious forms.

_Is breathing always this difficult? Is his heart supposed to feel like this?_

He digs his fingers into the sheets beneath him, but they’re far too soft for any sort of grounding friction.

It seems all too likely that he’s dying. There is a pandemic raging on, after all — who is he to think he would get out unscathed?

He struggles to breathe, breathe, _BREATHE_ as his mind continues to race away from him.

_people die in their sleep all of the time_

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---|---  
  
_just go to bed and never wake back up_

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_so many things he has yet to accomplish_  
  
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_there’s nothing he can do to stop time_

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_take one breath but no more_

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_many more that he never will._  
  
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_he has no way to know if he will live_

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_and though the likelihood is low_

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_who could he beg to_  
  
_(if he even deserves to)_  
  
_especially for his age_

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_and make his unworthy plea_  
  
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_if bad things happen to good people_

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_there is a chance —_

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_to be given a chance to finish._  
  
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_what happens to somebody_

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_with a respiratory epidemic on the loose_

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_how can he make his existence worthwhile_  
  
_as mediocre as he is?_  
  
_even small numbers seem largely relevant._

| 

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_the numbers can’t lie;_  
  
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_do his bad deeds outweigh his good?_

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_feeling his heart slow with the clock_

| 

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_living in overtime_  
  
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_has he made proper use of the time he’s already been given?_

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_tick, tick, tick_

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_still is measured time._  
  
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_can he be so deceitful as to say he’s been his best self_

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_not knowing if he’s simply falling asleep_

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_would the universe be kind enough_  
  
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_to claim that he hasn’t hurt people_

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_or if his time is up_

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_to first grant him a little peace?_  
  
_has he been a good enough_

_brother, son, partner, person_

_to merit continuing to live_

_among those he loves?_

_No, no, no,_

_NO._

The refrain is insistent and overwhelming.

Phil scrambles deeper under the covers, gasping and heaving and choking on air. Being enveloped in comfort should help but it does-does- _doesn’t_. He needs to get out.

He kicks and clutches at the duvet until he finds an edge and tumbles off the bed onto the floor.

Some part of Phil’s mind that’s still functional enough to recognize this as a panic attack tries to count off breaths that he isn’t taking and has him scanning the room for a rough material. His eyes snag on a towel left hanging off a chair after yesterday’s shower.

He half-crawls, half-stumbles over to the chair but can’t bring himself to sit in it — he needs to be on the ground right now, all of his limbs safely tucked up into his chest so they can’t get away.

He grabs the towel with both hands and quickly pulls it towards him, rubbing his palms against it roughly. _Friction._ It’s a sign that he’s interacting with the real, physical world and reminds him that he has a body he somehow needs to fit his mind back into.

_In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Repeat._

It feels weird to have to force his breathing, to feel so disconnected from his body. If the lights were on, he would probably try to start naming colors at this point, but all he can see is the blackness of the window shades, the blackness of the sheets, and the blackness of everything else in the room.

He once tried describing the sensation to Dan, who, despite his best efforts, didn’t really seem to understand what it meant for Phil to feel like a semi-broken magic eight-ball.

There’s a wiggly piece inside of an eight-ball — his mind, consciousness, whatever — that normally has no trouble seeing out through the window in the surrounding casing — his body. But sometimes things get stuck, and instead of looking out the designated spaces, the wiggly bit ends up half-covered by eight-ball internal wall. It’s a very jarring change, going from mostly ignoring his physical trappings to suddenly being forcibly confronted with every aspect of his human existence.

Every time he breathes, every time he successfully gets his eyes or his ears to focus on something, it nudges things a little bit more into place and brings him one step closer to mental and physical realignment.

He hears the sound of shuffling from over by the bed but doesn’t process what it means until Dan speaks.

“Why are you up?”

Phil wants to answer but isn’t sure that he is able. He doesn’t feel like he’s connected to his mouth, but then he hears his own voice rasp back, “Couldn’t sleep.”

Dan hums. “You should stop napping,” he mumbles. “You’re ruining your sleep schedule.”

Phil doesn’t respond. He doesn’t know how to explain that sleeping during the day is the only kind of rest that he can manage, that it’s the only kind that feels _safe_.

Naps are so transitory that it seems impossible for his life to be taken from him while within one. But when what’s waiting on the other side of sleep is the potential of waking up to a brand-new day, Phil worries that he won’t.

And he should tell Dan about it, probably, once he’s managed to stop floating within the eight-ballness of himself. But Dan has his own fears and anxieties and enough existentialism to last a very long lifetime. He certainly doesn’t need the potential of _dying in one’s sleep_ added to the list.

Maybe it’s just an anxiety thing that he’s worried about making Dan’s anxiety worse, but he doesn’t know enough about how his brain sorts it all out to be sure.

Dan would normally be the one he’d ask about this kind of thing.

Phil takes a deep breath and finds that it comes much easier now. He’d have thought it’d feel good to come back into himself, but dislocating his mind and popping it back into place are both the same amount of _wrong_.

He knows they’ll figure out how to talk to each other about this eventually, even if he does want to protect Dan from some of the more sinister particulars. They’ll find a balance — as they always do — and they’ll come out stronger for it.

 _He’ll_ come out stronger for it.

The shaken-up magic eight-ball of himself finally has an answer: It is certain.

**Author's Note:**

> Like/Reblog [here](https://indistinct-echo.tumblr.com/post/639573438542004224/sleep-dont-count-on-it) :)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] Sleep (Don't Count On It)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29485131) by [yikesola](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yikesola/pseuds/yikesola)




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